


Pure as the driven slush

by Odsbodkins



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odsbodkins/pseuds/Odsbodkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should have worked it out sooner. But then, Steve always was a sneaky little bastard—had to have been, just to survive this long.</p><p>For the <a href="http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/">SteveBucky Fest</a> <a href="http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/307.html?thread=119603#cmt119603">prompt</a>, "Steve is quite experienced while Bucky's never gone beyond second base with anyone".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pure as the driven slush

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks again to [halfmoonsevenstars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars/pseuds/halfmoonsevenstars) for the beta.   
> Having read some more after writing this, there are certainly anachronisms in this fic; for example, the drag balls mentioned in this were much more a feature of Prohibition than the late 1930s. I apologise for this, and any other anachronisms which appear.

 

He should have worked it out sooner. But then, Steve always was a sneaky little bastard—had to have been, just to survive this long (Bucky did his best to protect him, but he couldn’t be everywhere).

Perhaps there were clues he should have picked up on. Like Steve begging off going out dancing most of the times Bucky tried to get him to go out. But so what? The guy didn’t like being ignored. Bucky would only force the issue if he’d found Steve a girl, and Steve never ducked out of their double dates.

He naturally assumed that if Steve didn’t want to go out with him, Steve stayed home. He was always in bed when Bucky came home, snoring away. (Seriously, the second worst thing about sharing with Steve was his snoring. Someone said it was the asthma, but whatever it was, the kid snored like a guy four times his size.)

Then one night, just after Steve turned nineteen, Bucky came home early. His date had nearly passed out from the heat barely half an hour after they’d set out, and, being the gentleman he was, he’d walked her home. Then he was so near home and it was so hot that he didn’t much care for going back out, so headed home.

The place was empty. There was no note, and Steve would always leave a note, even if he’d just gone to the corner store. So what the hell was going on? Steve hadn’t been sick, and if there had been some accident, he was sure one of their neighbors would have waited around to tell him.

Bucky waited. He kept the lights off. That was what they did in the movies, didn’t they? That train of thought led him wondering about every kind of criminal connection that Steve might have. But that couldn’t be right. Not only was Steve good through and through, he’d damn well hope that spending his evenings in a life of crime would bring in more money than what their income reflected at the moment.

Steve didn’t come home until half past eleven, flicked the light on as he came in and visibly jumped when he saw Bucky seated on the ratty couch.

He looked guilty as all hell. Shit, what if he was wrapped up in something criminal? What could Bucky do?

Steve closed the door carefully. “You’re home early.”

“Where you been, Steve?”

“I went round to check on Mrs. Riley.”

Steve was a terrible liar, and even if he wasn’t, he was close enough for Bucky to smell the faint tinges of cigarette smoke and alcohol on his clothes. “No, you ain’t. I’ve been here since eight, and you smell of booze. You went out. Without me.” Bucky was genuinely offended that Steve would go out without him. Sure, he complained about being invisible next to Bucky, but that was no reason to dump your best friend. And Bucky always did his best to talk Steve up to the girls, get them to pay him some attention.

Steve was chin up, defiant. “So what if I did? I changed my mind after you left.”

That wasn’t it, or at least not all of it. Bucky was missing something—missing something big, but he couldn’t work out what. “Where’d you go?”

“Newhaven Club.”

“Helluva long way to go for a spur of the moment night out.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew.”

They could dance around this all night, and Bucky was sick of it already. Steve _never_ lied to him. Why was he lying now? “Quit lying, Steve. What the hell’s going on? You in trouble? Tell me you ain’t got the wrong side of the mob.”

“No, not in trouble. I—sorry. Just—sorry.”

“C’mon Steve, talk to me.”

Steve closed his eyes, looked pained. “I was—I was at the One-Thirty.”

The name meant nothing to Bucky. “The One-Thirty?”

Steve didn’t open his eyes, and swallowed hard before answering. “It’s—It’s a queer bar.”

Bucky felt his mouth open. A queer bar. Steve had gone out to a _queer bar_. Which meant—“You’re a fairy.”

“No! I just—sometimes. It’s easier, with guys, okay? Just—easier.”

Strangely, that made complete sense. Steve’s number one insecurity was his height. Queers had to have less hangups about height than dames did.

But still—Steve? With a guy? He was—he was the last person Bucky would have pegged as a invert. He was a good kid. Didn’t tangle with the law.

But he could also be damned reckless when he thought something was right. So—Steve thought it was okay. To do... that. With a guy.

His brain finally caught up with him—”sometimes.” So more than once. A regular thing.

“You—you do this every time I go out without you?”

“Not every time.”

Bucky’s world had just turned upside down. It was so—unexpected? He knew some guys went to queer bars sometimes. He remembered Charlie drunkenly telling three of them, “S’not like that, you get yourself a little fairy, some of ‘em even in dresses, get ‘em face down in bed, s’just like a dame. ‘N they put out easy. Those fairies want it. Don’ even have to try. Don’ mean you’re one of them.”

Charlie was a bullshitter, so it was even odds whether he’d ever nailed a fairy. But he was pretty sure some of the other guys he was friends with probably had. Just—just not Steve.

At least Steve wasn’t a fairy. He had a sudden mental image of some dumb hairy-assed jerk like Charlie shoving Steve down to screw him, and had to suppress a shudder. But it was okay. Steve wasn’t a fairy.

Steve was looking at him warily. “What are you going to do?”

“Do? Nothing. Why should I want to do anything?”

“I didn’t know if you—you’d want me to move out—if you knew.”

“Then I’d have to find some other asshole to live with, and all the assholes I know would never do their share of the washing up.”

“I do _all_ the washing up, you lazy punk.”

“Yeah, well, at least you ain’t up to your neck with the mob. I’m going to bed. Long day.” Bucky wasn’t actually that sleepy, and it was too damn hot to sleep properly anyway, but he wanted to think about this, and pretending to sleep felt like a good plan.

He felt suddenly self-conscious as he pulled his undershirt over his head. Steve had...been with guys. (Did he know that? Steve hadn’t exactly said it, but had hinted strongly enough. Or did he just mean kissing?) Was Steve looking at _him_ like that? No, he could see Steve out of the corner of his eye, and Steve was sorting through a bunch of drawings, looking annoyed.

Bucky flopped onto his bed, just in his shorts because of the heat, automatically rolled onto his front and shoved his arms under his pillow, the way he always slept. He had a sudden jolt—was this an invitation, should he at least pull the sheet over himself? No, he was being stupid. Steve was gonna jump him, he’d have done it before now. Now _that_ was a mental image; Bucky had to bite his lip to keep from snickering at the idea of all 90 pounds of Steve trying to jump a guy his size.

He was—if he was going to be honest with himself, he had thought about it, a couple of times. Of going with a guy. Only a couple of times, though. So maybe there was a little kernel of pervert in him, too. And if he was going to be really honest, he’d thought about Steve when he thought about going with a guy. When it was so cold there was ice on the inside of the window, they’d sleep in the same bed, and Steve just fit...right in his arms. ‘Course, most of that was because it was a single bed, and they _had_ to fit right, or otherwise they’d fall out.

This was all dumb anyway. Whatever anyone thought of him, Bucky Barnes was a good kid, and he was saving himself for marriage. He could put up a front, he could pretend, he could shoot his mouth off about sex with the best of them, but the most he’d ever done was kiss a dame (then go home and jerk off like he was going to explode, because he was only human). He didn’t want to catch anything from a whore or a goodtime girl, and he certainly didn’t want to go accidentally knocking up a nice girl and ruining her life. Yeah, he knew about condoms, but they didn’t work all the time and he didn’t like the odds.

One day he was going to meet the right girl, and he’d propose, and she’d be his first, on their wedding night. Up till then, he was going to carry on having really great times with not-quite-right girls. He didn’t need to go with a guy, or think about going with a guy, but if that’s what Steve needed to do to feel good about himself, he wasn’t going to judge.

It was weird for a few days, both of them walking on eggshells around each other. Bucky tried not to think about Steve thinking about guys like that, tried not to be awkward, and knew he was failing. He could see that Steve was trying to not do anything that could be misinterpreted, which basically meant not looking at him if he was less than fully dressed. Since it was the middle of summer, that was most of the time. It was very, very awkward to share a tiny apartment with someone who wouldn’t look at you.

It was one of the neighborhood kids who solved their problem. Not deliberately, of course. The little bastard (and Bucky didn’t know which one, but had a shortlist of a dozen) was obviously just intending to cause trouble. The kid had dumped soap flakes into the pool of water from one of the opened fire hydrants by their building. Steve and Bucky had been walking together, were taken by surprise by the sudden slipperiness and had both pitched over into an ungainly heap of arms and legs, which swept the soap flakes to the hydrant itself, and suddenly the sidewalk was explosively bubbly.

They’d quickly gone from annoyed to hysterical, and you couldn’t stay awkward with the guy you’d just fallen over in the street with three times in a mess of bubbly water.

Steve stopped hiding when he’d been out after that. Sometimes Bucky would come home from a night out and Steve would be there, snoring, and sometimes there’d be a note saying he was out. One time Steve didn’t come home till the next morning. It was much, much harder to not think about what he was doing when that happened, and Bucky preferred it when Steve came home that night, however late he was. However late in getting home he was on a Saturday night, Steve would be up bright and early for church on Sunday, chasing Bucky out of bed to come along like he always did.

Bucky definitely did not lie awake waiting for Steve to come home, worrying about him getting beaten up. He definitely did not imagine Steve making out with guys. He absolutely had never, after Steve didn’t come home till the morning, jerked off in the shower thinking of Steve nailing some fairy.

Things were normal. They worked, paid their bills, Steve got sick, Steve got better (thank god), Steve was still a dumb jerk who would pick fights with guys twice his size because he thought he was right. They still went along to the same gym, and however hard he tried and however much Bucky tried to teach him, Steve still couldn’t throw a punch worth a damn. On the coldest nights they still slept in the same bed, because warm and slightly awkward was better than cold. They still went on double dates, and the double dates were still awful. Bucky seriously could not understand it. Why the hell couldn’t the dames see what a great guy Steve was? Sure, he was a little on the short and skinny side, but apart from that, everything you’d ever want in a husband.

Spring rolled round again, and Bucky had been out with Margie, who was a great dancer and swell girl, but still not the _right_ girl. He had come home to a note saying that Steve had gone out for the evening. Bucky had barely started to undress for bed when Steve stumbled in, lip busted, breathing hard.

“Aw, Steve, what happened?” He was already walking to the sink to soak a cloth.

Steve caught his breath the best he could, and Bucky could see him try and be casual when he said, “Just a couple of guys objecting to the bar we were walking out of.”

“Hell, Steve.” He dabbed gently at Steve’s lip, as Steve winced. “You hurt anywhere else?”

“No, uh, another couple of guys happened to be walking out of the bar, helped out.” He shot Bucky a sharp look. “I’m fine, it’s fine, stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—like I nearly died or something.”

“You could have! You were just lucky there were enough of you to fight back. You go out there on your own, and it ain’t safe being seen going into those places—”

“Lots of things ain’t safe, Bucky.”

“I’d be happier if you let me walk you out there, at least.” Bucky had no idea where that had come from; it was the weirdest, dumbest idea he’d had in his life, and the way that Steve was staring at him, he knew it too.

“You want to—to—to _chaperone_ me to a queer bar.”

Rule number one with dumb ideas was to keep running with them, and never admit they were dumb, because most of the time you could convince everyone they were great ideas. “No, dumbass, bodyguard. ‘Cause you’re bad enough about getting into trouble around here, let alone somewhere where trouble’s looking for you.”

“I ain’t a kid-—”

“You ain’t, but there’s trouble you can’t handle on your own.”

“No. Just—no. I’ll keep my head down, keep a better lookout in the future, okay?”

That was the start of them aggressively not going out for several weeks. Bucky would declare that he was going out. He’d then offer to walk Steve to the bar of his choice before he went on to wherever he was going. Steve would get annoyed, refuse the offer, and Bucky would refuse to go out without knowing that Steve was safe. So Steve would refuse to go out at all, and they’d spend the evening glowering and sniping at each other.

It was Steve who brought things to a head. “There’s a drag ball tomorrow. I’m going.”

Bucky shrugged. “Sure. I’ll walk you there—”

“No.” Then something seemed to occur to Steve, and Steve looked at him, openly challenging. “You walk me there, you walk _in_ there.”

Oh, no way was he going to back down from any challenge Steve could set him. “Sure. Reckon I’ve danced with most girls in this neighborhood anyhow.”

“No girls there, Buck.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I ain’t _that_ dumb. They’re wearing dresses, and they’ll follow when you dance, right? That’ll do.”

Steve stared at him for a moment, sizing him up. But Bucky didn’t back down, didn’t waver. Steve said, “Are you prepared for half a room full of guys trying to get in your pants? Because that’s what will happen.”

Bucky couldn’t help but preen a little at that. “Good for my ego, even if I ain’t interested.”

“Huh, yeah. If you could find a female version of yourself, you’d marry her, wouldn’t you?”

Bucky just grinned, though that wasn’t true. He and a female version of himself would just be a downward spiral of terrible ideas. He needed someone to keep him on the straight and narrow, a girl with Steve’s sort of moral compass.

Steve said, “You could be arrested just being there. Cops don’t care why you’re there.”

“You could be arrested too.”

Steve stared him down for another few moments before saying, “Fine. Rules, Bucky: don’t lead anyone on. I’ve seen some of them scratch a guy so hard he bled, so don’t look like you’re offering what you’re not. Don’t stare. Don’t call anyone in a dress a guy, or call them ‘he’. Don’t give your real surname to anyone. Or mine.”

Bucky gave a mock salute.

“And the most important rule: don’t get between me and any guy. Just—don’t. Okay?”

Bucky’s smile didn’t waver, but his stomach did give a little turn at that. Somehow he was fine with the idea of dancing with guys, with guys hitting on him, but the idea of watching Steve flirt with a guy, maybe even kiss a guy—he was suddenly much less okay with that. But he wasn’t backing down, and said, “As if I would.”

That night he lay in bed, listening to Steve snore, and wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. A drag ball. The hell? But the only other option was letting Steve win, and no way was he going to let that happen.

The next evening Bucky dressed with just as much care as if he had a date; he’d show Steve he was taking this seriously—and pretend that he wasn’t nervous as all hell.

He kept it casual, even when the guy on the door checked him out, kept it casual as they walked into the packed room and...wow. He had _definitely_ danced with uglier women than some of these guys made.

He was brought up short by an elbow in the ribs as Steve said through gritted teeth, “What did I say about staring?”

He looked at Steve, who was all discomfort and tension, and shit, he was ruining Steve’s night out, wasn’t he? And he was going to keep ruining it if he stuck around. He grinned at Steve and said, “Just working out who I was gonna ask to dance. See you later, Steve.”

He made a beeline for a guy—girl, best think like that to stop himself saying the wrong thing, who in the right light kinda looked a little like Vivien Leigh, and asked hi— _her_ to dance.

It wasn’t quite like dancing with a girl. Just a little too much hardness of muscle under his hands, a little the wrong shape.

That and he had to keep moving at least one of her hands off his ass every twenty seconds. Even the most forward girls he’d ever danced with had managed to keep their hands above his waist for the majority of the number.

“Just here for the dancing, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, your boyfriend ain’t looking to do much _dancing_ with the guy he’s talking to.”

“Boyfriend?”

“The blond you came in with. The one you ain’t able to keep yer eyes off.”

Bucky had just been glancing occasionally to where Steve was, just checking he was okay. Watching him circulate, watching the Clark Gable lookalike buy him a drink.

“He ain’t my boyfriend.”

“He ain’t gonna be by the end of the evening if you don’t do something about it.”

“I meant it, I’m just here for the dancing.”

“You really are, aren’t ya? Sheesh, just my luck to pick the last gentleman in all New York.”

He twirled her round. “Find a new partner for the next number then, doll.”

“You sure I can’t change your mind? Bet you talk real sweet in bed, too.”

“Nope.”

He let her go at the end of the dance and asked someone else. His next four dance partners were all a little disappointed that he was just wanting to dance, which was probably why Steve had given him the warning about not leading anyone on.

“You mean it’s about just dancing?”

“Yes!” He was getting to understand why some girls were convinced that guys were only after one thing.

“Huh. C’mon, I need to introduce you to Annie. She’s complaining that she never gets any proper practice dancing, everyone being too interested in their horizontal dance moves, if you get me.”

Annie was as tall as he was, and almost as broad, would never pass for female in daylight even though she was dressed to the nines, hair and makeup just perfect. But the important thing was that she was an excellent dancer. Bucky would put her in the top ten wo—people he’d ever danced with, and he loved dancing. By the third number they’d gotten to know each other’s rhythms, working out where the other would move next, and were getting attention on the dancefloor.

Bucky was having one of his best nights out in months. At a drag ball. Dancing with a guy in a dress.

They took a break and headed for the bar. Bucky downed most of his beer in one gulp, parched from the exertion and the heat.

As they stood there and caught their breath, Annie said, “I can’t quite figure it. You and the blond. First I thought, he’s your boyfriend, but he doesn’t dance, which is why you’re just looking to dance. But the way he’s letting that guy keep buying him drinks, and he’s going home with him, not you. But you both keep looking for each other, even when you’re with other people.”

“Just a friend, that’s all.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sure he is. That’s why you can’t take your eyes off him.”

“I keep an eye on him because he gets into fights he can’t handle, that’s all.”

“You’re not his boyfriend, but you are his knight in shining armour. You keep a horse somewhere to sweep him onto?”

“It ain’t like that at all.” He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say, “Hey, look, I don't go queer but he does, and I’m just worried that he’s gonna get himself killed,” because that made Steve look helpless, and he knew how much Steve hated that.

“Sure.”

“It ain’t any of your business anyway.” It was a little sharp, but he was sick of everyone here assuming that he was screwing Steve just because he wanted to look out for him. Couldn’t a guy be a gentleman any more?

She shrugged. “Sorry. Come on. Dance.”

Dancing was one of his favorite things because you didn’t have to think about anything apart from the music, your partner, and how you were moving. No worries, nothing intruding, just dancing.

So it was a really good thing that he was on the dance floor when he saw Steve leaving with a guy. Though he almost stumbled over his own feet, he could push down his discomfort and really throw himself back into dancing.

He stayed, almost always on the dance floor with Annie, until the place started to empty in the early hours of the morning.

“I should be going,” said Annie.

“You gonna take it the wrong way if I offer to walk you home?”

“You really would just walk me home?”

“To your door, that’s all. I’d—I’d kinda be happier if I knew you were home safe.”

“If they gave prizes for being a true gent, you’d be first in line.” She offered him her arm.

Bucky walked her home, like he walked all his dates home. He was a little more edgy, a little more on guard, but that was the only difference. It was dark enough, even with the streetlights, that they didn’t get any undue attention.

“This is me.” She grinned at him, “I ask you to come upstairs—”

Bucky smiled, “I’d say no. I meant it.”

“You’re a good man, Bucky.”

“I ain’t. But I know I ain’t, so I try and act like one.”

“So this is goodnight.”

“Yeah, it is.” And it was complete autopilot to lean forwards and kiss her, because that’s what he always did when he walked his dates home. He wished her goodnight, turned and walked away, and got nearly a block away before he realised—he’d just kissed a guy.

He stopped dead. He’d danced all night with a bunch of guys, walked a guy home, and then kissed him. He’d been willing to admit to himself that he might have a little kernel of pervert in him, but that was thinking about it, and only then maybe a couple of times. He’d just kissed a guy—not _thought_ about it— _done_ it.

And—and he’d liked it just as much as the last girl he’d kissed.

He started walking again, blindly heading for home, mind completely elsewhere. Bucky kept replaying the kiss in his head, trying to find something different, something he disliked, and couldn’t find anything.

When he got home he found that Steve wasn’t back, so he changed for bed, but couldn’t sleep, replaying parts of the evening over and over. He gave up after a while, turned the light back on, tried to read, but was really just staring at the pages when Steve came home.

Steve looked him over as he was taking his jacket off. “And you looked like you were actually having fun when I left.”

“Told you it didn’t matter so long as they knew how to dance.”

“So why’re you sitting there, looking miserable as sin?”

“I, er—” Shit, he’d had plenty of time to think about this, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Steve would notice the change.

“Your dance partner kissed you, didn’t she?”

“What?” Bucky thought he must have ‘guilty’ written all over his face.

“You didn’t quite catch all the lipstick.”

Bucky wiped at his mouth without thinking, realised what he’d done, and looked sulkily at Steve. It was much better to run with this, as affronted unwanted kissee, rather than the guy who had initiated the kiss.

Steve looked on the verge of laughing. “I warned you.”

Bucky folded his arms. “Yeah, and I didn’t lead anyone on, told all of them I was just there for the dancing.” He pouted theatrically. “Some guys just don’t take no for an answer.”

Steve did laugh at that. “Guess not everyone’s the sort of gentleman you are, Buck.” Then Steve looked serious. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just. Kinda weird?” He shrugged. He didn’t know what he was thinking, and didn’t want to talk about it with a guy who was definitely okay with kissing guys and doing all sorts of things with guys that Bucky was desperately trying not to think of and failing.

Steve said, “It was all your idea in the first place.”

“My idea? It was all you—”

“I’d been just fine on my own; one set of assholes and suddenly you think I need protecting—”

“The stuff you get to hearing, you _do_ need protecting.” He shrugged, and said, “I’ve had worse nights out, and you’re not bleeding, so it all worked out.”

Steve shook his head, “And I thought I had you all figured.”

Bucky very pointedly said, “G’night Steve,” and turned over to sleep.

But Steve still wouldn’t let Bucky walk him to bars after that. “I know you ain’t gonna cause a scene, but c’mon Buck, I’m a grown man.”

Bucky had to give in eventually, though the first time he went out without Steve he spent the whole night worrying that something was going to happen to him. It took a couple of months, but he realised that Steve was no more likely to get beaten up on his nights out than on an average day (and how many guys could that be true for?), so he could relax. A little.

Then he met Ruthie.

Ruthie was new to the city; she’d come in looking for work and found it as a typist at one of the big companies downtown. She was blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, and had a body like Mae West. And she could dance—oh, she could dance.

He asked her out fifteen minutes after first meeting her, and every new thing he found out about her was just another bit of perfection. She was a good girl, never missed church, didn’t even drink.

After two weeks, he said to Steve, “She’s the one. I know it. She’s...she’s, perfect Steve.”

Steve didn’t look up from his drawing. “So why’s she dating a dumbass like you?”

Bucky grinned, “Part of her perfection is her excellent taste in men.”

Steve raised an eyebrow and shook his head, “So when’re you walking her up the aisle?”

“It’s been two weeks. You get too hasty and girls think you’re only after one thing.”

He took Ruthie out whenever he could, showed her every sort of good time he could think of. Won her a dumb toy at the shooting range at Coney Island (and did not let on how much time he’d spent practicing a couple of years back just so that he could impress a girl).

They’d been going steady for three months when Steve got beaten up coming out of a queer bar again.

Bucky had come home from another date with Ruthie oozing cheerfulness, and had just kicked his shoes off when Steve fell through the door. Bucky had good enough reflexes to catch him in time before he hit the floor, and Steve was light enough that he could half-carry him to his bed. His lip and nose were busted up, with other red marks across his face, and from the way he winced when Bucky rolled him onto the bed, he was hurt under his clothes as well.

Bucky didn’t say anything, just ran a basin of warm water and fetched a cloth.

When he came back to the bed, Steve had his eyes closed, chest hitching with suppressed sobs, a couple of tears already making their tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

“It’s okay, Stevie, okay now.” Meaningless, and he knew it. He gently started to clean Steve’s face, wiping away his tears as he did it. The nose would need looked at, but Mr. Thomas downstairs could fix almost any nose like new; Bucky would get him to look in in the morning. Steve was going to have a black eye in the morning as well.

“Let me look at the rest of you.”

Steve struggled to sit up, and Bucky gently supported him. He could help Steve out of his shirt, but he knew that if Steve could do something, it was better to let him do it.

There was an honest to god footprint on Steve’s chest. Bucky couldn’t help but gasp when he saw it. Steve looked down and away, like he was ashamed of what had happened to him, which was dumb, because it wasn’t like Steve deserved for this to happen. He gently felt along the lines of Steve’s ribs.

“Deep breath. That hurt?”

“N’more ‘n usual.”

“That shoulda broken a couple of ribs. You’re tougher than you look, ain’t ya?”

He continued to help Steve undress. No marks on Steve’s stomach, but bruises across his shins and arms. He could picture it, Steve knocked down, the instinct to curl to protect yourself (a good one, shins and arms you could heal at home—rupture something in your stomach and you could be dead).

He finished cleaning Steve up, then found the antiseptic ointment, smeared it along all the cuts and grazes. He kissed Steve on the forehead when he was done, like he’d done every time he’d cleaned him up, ever since they were kids.

“‘m not a kid.” Which was what Steve said every time.

Steve got into his pajamas while Bucky threw away the bloody water.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

“Bunch of ‘em, waiting for anyone coming out of the bar. Coulda been worse. Someone ran back for help.” Steve cracked half a smile, which looked gory as hell on his busted face. “Ever seen a fairy in a dress and heels kick a guy in the chest?”

Bucky grinned, because that was what Steve wanted, “A lot more exciting than my night out.”

He changed and went to bed, turned the light out.

After a few minutes he could hear the quiet, stifled sounds of Steve trying not to cry. He got up, padded across the room in the darkness, and slipped into bed behind Steve, wrapped his arms around his waist where he knew Steve wasn’t bruised, murmured soothing nonsense in his ear. It was dark, and when it was dark you shouldn’t have to pretend not to cry.

He held Steve until he was sure he was asleep, and then went back to his own bed. He didn’t want to risk nudging any of Steve’s injuries in his sleep.

Steve’s nose did go back just fine, and no one questioned their story about Steve intervening when some kid was being beaten up.

Bucky knew Steve wouldn’t go out with his face in that state, but he couldn’t help fussing a little over him before he left for his next date with Ruthie. Maybe more than a little, because Steve ended up bodily pushing him out of the door, saying, “You’re gonna be late, dumbass.”

He was seeing Ruthie a couple of times a week, sometimes dancing or going to a movie, but sometimes just settling in a diner someplace and drinking coffee. Those times usually ended up with Ruthie sighing and talking about how much she missed her family. Bucky would smile and look sympathetic, but he didn’t know how anyone could keep track of a family as large as Ruthie’s, let alone miss _all_ of them.

She must have picked up on that. “You haven’t got any family, have you?”

“Nope. I mean, there’s Steve, I’ve known him so long he’s almost family. You should meet him. He’s a swell guy.” He mentally added, “but not now, not when he looks like he’s gone ten rounds with Joe Louis.”

She smiled. “You said so before.”

“Sorry. But he is. You ain’t got any single girlfriends for him, have ya?”

She laughed, “Nope, not any who like blind dates, anyhow.”

(Later he would realise that she never once mentioned him meeting her family, and that should have been a warning, but he was too stupid over her to notice at the time.)

Steve’s face healed up. Bucky offered to walk him out to any bar (even though both times he’d been beaten up it had been leaving, it was all Bucky could do). Steve refused.

“I don’t—no one _needs_ to go out. I’ll stay home. I’ll get some freelance work done, won’t spend my money. I’m gonna need it when you go and get married on me.”

That made Bucky’s gut twist. He’d almost forgotten, in being all over Ruthie, that if they got together it would mean leaving Steve. You didn’t set up home with your wife and your best friend. Steve would be all alone, making the rent on his own, no one to look after him when he was sick. He made a silent promise to himself, to look harder for some girl for Steve. Leave him in good hands.

Now whenever Bucky came home from a night out Steve was usually still up, still working. He hadn’t found a girl for him. It was more difficult to ask when he was going steady. Ruthie had already said that she didn’t have any friends he could set up with Steve, and he couldn’t go talking to other girls without it looking like he was looking to cheat on Ruthie.

When it hit the six-month mark, Bucky found himself slowing down as he walked past jeweler's windows. It was still going to take him at least another six months to save up enough for a proper ring, but there was no harm in starting to look early.

They’d been going out for eight months, when Ruthie sat down with him in a diner and said, “You’re a swell guy Bucky, but—” and he knew it was over.

Apparently there’d been a guy back home; they’d been going steady since almost junior high, but she’d broken it off before she went to the big city because it wasn’t fair to him. Then, two days ago, he’d written and said he was going to join the army and wanted her to come home and marry him before he did.

He felt betrayed. He’d been, what, a distraction? Someone she could use?

She could obviously see that was what he was thinking. No, it hadn’t been like that at all. She really did like him, she swore, she hadn’t just been after a good time. She just hadn’t worked out how much she loved her guy back home until she realised she might lose him to someone else.

Bucky walked around for a while after leaving the diner. He considered going out to find someone else for the night, but he was feeling bitter towards women in general. So instead he wandered aimlessly for a couple of hours, downed cheap whiskey at a dive bar for another couple of hours and then headed home, a little drunk and a lot miserable.

Steve was still up, still working when he came in. “Oh Bucky, what happened?”

“Some guy from back home asked Ruthie to marry him, and I’m old news.”

“Sorry. I guess—I guess if she was the sort of girl who would do that to you, she wasn’t good for you anyway.”

Bucky flopped into a chair. “Don’t go getting _logical_ on me when some dame just dumped me.”

“Sorry.” He saw Steve was thinking of saying something else, then decided against it, and went over to their small stove. He came back with a mug of coffee. “Sober you up. So you might wake up tomorrow just miserable, rather than hungover and miserable.”

Bucky smiled and took the mug. Everyone thought that he looked after Steve, but that was just the physical stuff. Everything else, Steve looked after him.

Bucky didn’t feel much like going out for the next week or so, either staying in or spending more time at the gym. Saturday night rolled around, and Steve sighed and said, “Are you going to mope around here all night again?”

“‘m not moping.”

“Yeah, you are. Go out. Go dancing. It’ll cheer you up, it always does.”

“If I dance with a dame, I’ll start thinking of her again.”

Steve was sat at the table drawing as he talked. He paused, tapped his pencil against his chin and raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t have to be dames, does it? I mean, if all you want to do is dance.”

Bucky opened his mouth and shut it again. He’d had a great time before, and it avoided any possibility of running into anyone who might remind him too much of Ruthie. “Yeah. Sure, why not? Uh, as long as you come with me.”

Steve grinned. “Need me to protect your honor?”

Bucky grinned back, “Not my fault I’m irresistable.” It was actually much more to do with him not thinking he could actually walk through the doors of a place like that on his own. “You don’t have to stick with me, if you want to, uh...”

“What kind of friend would I be if I left you to be eaten alive by a bunch of drag queens?”

Bucky was going to a drag ball. Again. For no other reason than he wanted to.

As soon as they got through the door, a guy made a beeline for Steve. “Thought those jerks had scared you off for good, and who is _this_ you’ve brought with you, nice muscles, bet you can hold your own in a fight, is he taken?”

Bucky felt himself floundering in the face of the verbal attack. Steve said, “This is Bucky, he’s not looking, and yes, he can hold his own in a fight. Bucky, this is Bobby.”

Bobby looked him up and down. “ _I’ll_ say he can hold his own. Hey handsome, you looking out for our Steve?”

“When he lets me.”

“Mmmmn, yeah, ain’t that the thing. You ever fancy someone taller, you come talk to me, honeybun.”

Bobby winked and moved off. Steve pulled Bucky towards the bar, bought them both drinks. “Drink up, then go dance.”

“I meant it Steve, if you wanna—”

“This is about cheering you up, Bucky, not about me. And I’ve gotta protect your honor, remember?”

He wound up alternating between dancing a number and sitting with Steve. By the third dance he stopped correcting his dance partners’ assumption that he and Steve were a couple. It stopped them from making any moves on him, and meant they didn’t comment when he kept looking over to check on Steve (he was still kinda worried, even if it was supposed to be his night out, it was Steve’s first night out in a place like this since being beaten up).

It was the early hours of the morning when they left, Bucky sweaty and exhilarated and slightly drunk, Steve just slightly drunk. As they wove home, Bucky said, a little blearily, (but quietly, he wasn’t so drunk as to be stupid), “‘S a nice night out. Thanks. Nice pretending to be your boyfriend.”

Steve looked at him, obviously confused.

“‘S’what I told everyone I danced with. Thought it was okay if you weren’t looking for anyone. Tell ‘em you dumped me next time you go there, you’ll be fine.”

“You’re a jerk, Bucky.”

“‘M not. ‘M good.”

Things swung back into their old routine. He put in more effort into finding Steve a girl, and they went on double date after double date, each one as disastrous as the last. At summer really got the city into its grip, Steve finally refused.

“Not again this weekend, Buck. I—it’s gonna be just like the last time.”

“You don’t know that—”

“Yeah, I do. And you know it too.”

Bucky had no answer for that. He thought for a few moments. “I’ll go out. But—you should too. You’re happier when you, you know.” He sighed. “I’m getting to think the fairies in this town got better taste than the dames.”

Steve’s reaction bordered on the automatic. “You’re just saying that because they think _you’re_ handsome.”

That was how these conversations went, so Bucky smirked. “That’s what I said, good taste.”

So that weekend, Bucky went out on his own, had a reasonable night even though it was too sweltering to do much more than drink and talk. He stayed out late, enjoying the slight cool of the night as much as anything. Steve got home only a few minutes after him, as Bucky was still getting ready for bed.

He flopped face down onto the bed, already thinking it was too hot to sleep. He vaguely watched Steve undress through half-closed eyes.

Then Steve turned round and Bucky saw it. Saw them. The marks along his collarbone. Some guy had sucked those marks into Steve’s skin.

And suddenly Bucky was achingly hard, his mind supplying him with images of just about any guy licking and sucking those marks (taller, shorter, in a dress, in a suit).

The realisation followed a couple of moments later, just as sudden: he wanted to be that guy.

He shut his eyes, but the images kept playing in front of his eyelids. The light flicked off and Steve said, “G’night.”

He managed to mumble, “G’night” into his pillow.

He wanted, _needed_ , to touch himself. That shouldn’t have been a problem; any kid who’d grown up in an orphanage had selective deafness to the sound of other guys jerking off. But if he did, he’d be thinking of Steve, thinking of licking the sweat off his collarbones, and that would be wrong. He was already unconsciously grinding his hips into the mattress at those thoughts, and had to make himself stop.

He tried to think of something, anything else. Baseball scores. Nasty things in the papers. Fire and brimstone sermons.

Nothing worked. The images wouldn’t go away.

He turned onto his side, facing away from Steve, and shoved his hand into his shorts. He brought himself off quickly, thinking of having his mouth pressed on Steve’s neck and Steve’s hands on his dick.

He rolled back onto his stomach, and spent the rest of a sweaty, sleepless night wondering what the hell he was going to do.

What he did was precisely nothing.

He couldn’t tell Steve. Steve might run a mile (just because he sometimes went with guys didn’t mean he wanted Bucky). Worse, he might say yes, and what would that make them? He was—he knew what people could say about guys who were too close, too close as friends. Going queer occasionally was one thing, being—being an invert was another.

But when Steve said, casually, that he was going out on his own the next weekend, Bucky felt his stomach lurch. He didn’t want Steve with another guy. But he didn’t have any reason to stop him.

“I’ll come along, if you don’t mind.”

Steve looked at little wary. “I’m going to bars, not dancing.”

Bucky shrugged. “Whatever. I won’t get in your way.” It was out of character, he knew, and Steve’s suspicion was warranted. But he couldn’t—he didn’t want—he was so mixed up he had no idea what he was doing.

The bar was much the same as any other, apart from the lack of girls. What the hell was he doing there? He went and sat at the bar on his own, because he’d promised not to get in Steve’s way.

He hit the bar hard. Up to the fifth whiskey he didn’t talk to anyone except the bartender, which was fine by him. But apparently his gloom wasn’t enough to keep everyone away, and eventually a guy started talking to him, flirting. Bucky flirted back on impulse, part of himself wondering if that would help, whether screwing some fairy would take his mind off things. He realised it wouldn’t. He’d just feel guilty about screwing some guy, and knew that it would not stop him thinking about Steve at all.

He gave the guy the brush-off and then noticed that Steve was talking to a guy. Tall, dark, handsome, had just bought him a drink. Steve was leaning into him, smiling, flirting.

Bucky downed a whiskey as he watched them, and ordered another. At the point that the guy’s fingers crept over Steve’s, he stood up and strode over to them, leant over the table and into the guy’s face and said, “You ain’t good enough for him, you know that?”

“Bucky—” Steve’s tone was all warning, but Bucky ignored him.

“Oh yeah, pal? And you are? He ain’t with you, and if he knows your name, then I’m sure that’s for a reason. So why don’t you take your drunk ass home and sleep it off?”

“What’re you trying to say?” Bucky was squaring up for a fight, entirely certain that he could take this guy down if he needed to.

“Bucky. Back. Off.” Steve had stood up and was trying to get between him and the guy.

“Steve, he ain’t no good, you can see it off him. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“Go _home_ , Bucky.”

The guy’s lips curled in a sneer. “He don’t want you, lunkhead. He’s looking for a guy with a little more class.”

He was not taking _that_ from a goddamned queer, and as Steve tried to pull him away from his right side, he swung a left hook, which connected very satisfyingly. Then four big guys were on him, hauling him out of the bar and throwing him onto the street. His face hit the asphalt as he went down, and he lay there, spitting grit.

The doorman said, “You’re banned. Do yourself a favor and go home.”

Bucky pulled himself upright, brushed himself down and gingerly felt his face for damage. He turned round, and Steve was stood there, arms folded.

Steve said, very quietly, “We’re gonna go to the diner round the corner, you’re gonna drink coffee till you sober up, and then you’re gonna tell me what the _hell_ that was all about.”

He could tell that Steve was absolutely seething, but he was containing his anger in quiet, controlled fierceness. Shit. Bucky had screwed up, badly.

He followed Steve to the diner and drank his coffee under Steve’s glare.

After the third cup, Steve broke the silence, saying, “Hold your hand out.”

Bucky did, and there was barely a waver.

Steve said, quietly, “That’ll do. We’re gonna walk and talk. C’mon.”

Bucky knew that was so they weren’t overheard. Their apartment had thin walls, and there was no public place you could guarantee no eavesdropping, so walking and talking was best for anything really private. People would only get snatches, nothing really important altogether.

They walked.

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not that dumb. Think.”

“I didn’t want you going with a guy.”

“Why now? I kinda expected this when I told you, but that was more than a year ago. Bucky, you’ve been to two drag balls and _now_ you decide it’s not okay?”

Bucky took a deep breath. Steve valued truth above most other things. Steve had been brave enough to tell him the truth, about going to queer bars, when he couldn’t have known that Bucky wasn’t going to kick him out or worse. Now Bucky had to be brave enough to face up to what he was thinking, what he was feeling, whatever that made him, whatever Steve’s reaction might be.

“I didn’t want you with him, because I didn’t want any guy kissing you except me.”

Steve stopped dead, and Bucky stopped too, turned to look at him properly.

“What?”

Steve looked completely disbelieving, and Bucky’s throat went dry. He looked quickly up and down the street which was deserted, then whispered thickly, “If you’re gonna be kissing a guy, I want it to be me.”

“You—you mean that?”

“Yeah.”

Steve just looked at him for what felt like a lifetime. Eventually he said, “C’mon. Home.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Bucky couldn’t read Steve’s expression, and he would have given anything to know what he was thinking.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, Steve turned to Bucky and whispered, “What do you want?”

Bucky shrugged. “I don’t know. Want to kiss you. Want—whatever you’ll give me.”

Steve looked him straight in the eye, all challenge, and said, “So kiss me.”

Bucky stepped forward, slid his left hand around Steve’s waist, and brought his right hand up to card through Steve’s hair. He was caught like that for a moment, looking into Steve’s eyes, knowing that he was on the edge of a precipice, and if he jumped, nothing was going to be the same. But he wanted this more than anything, and understood now that there had always been a part of him that had wanted this. He leant down and kissed Steve, and it just felt so _right_. Like Steve was meant to be in his arms, the way they fit together.

It helped that Steve was a helluva kisser.

Bucky was hard as a rock in his pants and had done the awkward half-shuffle backwards he always did when that happened when he was with a girl. But Steve took a step forward, pressed himself against him as they kissed. Bucky made a low noise into the kiss from the pressure at his groin.

Then he realised that what he felt pressing against his thigh was Steve’s erection, and just that thought made him rock into Steve.

Steve pulled back, still holding onto Bucky, a wide smile on his face, “Gonna mess up your best pants?”

Bucky didn’t blush easily, but that was enough to bring some color to his cheeks. He couldn’t make his mouth work to say anything, though. Steve walked backwards, pulling him along with him, until they ended up at the couch. Bucky sat down without thinking, and then Steve was straddling his lap, kissing him again, and jesus, Steve was right, he was within an ace of coming in his pants.

Steve pulled back again, and Bucky couldn’t do anything but stare. Steve was a little flushed, his hair messed up from Bucky’s hands in it, eyes dark, pants tented at his crotch, and Bucky was filled with such overwhelming want that he didn’t know what to do with himself. His hands circled Steve’s thighs, almost holding on.

Steve said softly, “You want to stop, you just say, okay?” Bucky nodded. “And you gotta keep quiet.” Bucky nodded again.

Then Steve’s fingers were at the buttons to his pants, releasing his dick. Steve wrapped his hand around it, too gentle, and Bucky couldn’t help the noise he made. Steve put one finger to Bucky’s lips and said sternly, “Shush.”

Steve paused and seemed to reconsider, and put his hand over Bucky’s mouth. Then, leaving his hand over Bucky’s mouth, he bent down, and Bucky’s world just about exploded. Steve was sucking his dick, and nothing any of the guys had ever said about this prepared him for it. It was hot and wet and Steve was sucking and his tongue was wrapping and then curling around him and Bucky’s hands went to Steve’s hair without thinking; he should pull him off before he came, but he couldn’t think, wanted to push deeper, feel more. When Bucky came it was harder and more intense than anything he’d ever felt when he was on his own, biting down on his tongue to not make a noise.

Steve still had his dick in his mouth, gently sucking through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Steve pulled off, took his hand off Bucky’s mouth, and raised an eyebrow at him. Bucky knew he should have some comeback, but his brain had melted, and instead he roughly pulled Steve down to clumsily kiss him.

Jesus, that taste in Steve’s mouth was his come. If he could get hard again that fast, he knew he’d be hard. But Steve was—Steve hadn’t—he didn’t know if he could return the favor, but he reckoned that it should be the same jerking someone else off as it was jerking yourself off. He fumbled at the fastenings of Steve’s pants without breaking the kiss, suddenly more clumsy than he’d been in his life, eventually managing to get his hand around Steve’s dick. The way Steve’s grip tightened on his hair, he must have been doing something right. He concentrated on getting Steve off, trying to read every reaction, work out what Steve liked. Then, with no warning, Steve came, hot spurts over Bucky’s hand and shirt.

Steve rested his forehead against Bucky’s and whispered, “S’ry about the shirt.”

“You ain’t sorry at all.”

Steve grinned. “No, I ain’t.”

Bucky wiped his hand across Steve’s shirt. “So now we’re even.”

Steve chuckled, and it should have been weird or awkward, because, shit, two minutes ago Steve had had his mouth on Bucky’s dick, but it wasn’t. He did, though, realise just how hot it was. Usually he’d strip off his tie and shirt as soon as he was in the door on a night like this, but he’d been kinda distracted. But he wanted to start on Steve’s first. He kissed Steve again, and as they kissed started to undo Steve’s tie. He felt Steve’s fingers on his tie as well, and soon they were both shirtless.

Bucky broke the kiss and bent his head to lick along Steve’s collarbone, just like he’d wanted to, tasting the salt of the sweat. Steve shivered a little, and Bucky pulled him closer. Then Bucky sucked at Steve’s skin, wanting to mark him, show that no other guy was going to get to do this.

That thought, that possessiveness, brought him up short. What was this? What was he?

“Buck, I can hear ya thinking.”

“I—what if I’m an invert?”

Steve sighed gently. “So what if you are? You gonna take out an ad in the newspaper telling everyone? Ain’t no one outside this room needs to ever know. Between you, me, and the Almighty. And I think the Almighty’s more worried about the killings and the starving children than that we’re kissing.”

Bucky squeezed Steve close. “I do remember Jesus didn’t have much use for dames.”

“I’ll go tell Sister Maria you actually learned something in catechism.”

Bucky smiled into Steve’s skin. He was sleepy, in spite of the coffee, and would be happy to doze off on the couch with Steve in his arms, even with the heat. But Steve had other ideas, and poked him in the ribs. “Bed, jerk. You’ll regret sleeping on the couch.”

Bucky stood up without letting go of Steve, kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his pants as he did so. Steve was a little too heavy to carry comfortably, but it beat putting him down. Steve, for once, didn’t object. It was too hot to lie together in bed like this, even if they were only wearing shorts, but he didn’t want to let go. He drifted off to the sound of Steve snoring into his chest.

He woke up feeling like half his body was in a furnace, and it took him some moments to realise that was because Steve was still lying half on top of him. He rolled out from under him, gently, but knew he’d woken him up, and headed for the shared bathroom. When he left the bathroom, Steve was waiting outside. Back in their apartment he sat on the bed and waited for him.

He knew he should feel guilty, but all he was feeling was that he wanted to kiss Steve again. Wanted a whole lot more than that.

Steve’s expression was unreadable when he came back into the room. He walked back over to the bed, and shit, what if Steve thought that it had been a mistake? Steve sat on the bed next to him, and Bucky reached out for him, scared in the pit of his stomach that Steve was going to move away.

He didn’t, and the relief must have shown on Bucky’s face because Steve said, “You’re such a dumbass, you know that?” before leaning in to kiss him.

Bucky pulled Steve into his lap as they kissed, wanting the contact even with the heat. He wanted—he wanted Steve to fuck him. If Steve said it didn’t matter what he was, then it was okay to want that, wasn’t it? He broke the kiss, and said, “Would you—I want you to fuck me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Surer’n I’ve been about most stupid things I’ve done.”

Steve looked at him for a moment, then said, “Floor. Squeaky beds get questions asked.”

They pulled the covers off both the beds to make a makeshift bed on the floor, and both shucked their shorts. Steve pulled a tub of vaseline out of the nightstand, and Bucky shivered involuntarily. Steve said, “We don’t have to—”

“I want to. Please?”

“You got it bad if you’re being polite all of a sudden.”

Bucky grinned, all the tension in him dissolved in an instant. If there was anyone in the world he wanted to do this with, it was Steve. They kissed for the longest while, lying together in the bedcovers, pressed against each other. Bucky knew he could get off like this, just from the feel of Steve’s body against his, but he wanted the rest of it.

He pulled away from Steve, and Steve said, “Turn over. If that’s what you want—”

“Stop fussing and do it.”

“Demanding punk.”

Bucky turned over, and Steve kissed the back of his neck. Then there was the warm slick feel of Steve’s finger tracing his ass crack, and Steve was murmuring in his ear, “Just relax, Buck,” before the finger slid inside him. It was intrusive, not painful, then suddenly Steve touched something inside him, and there were stars behind his eyes.

“Quiet.” hissed Steve sternly. Bucky brought his arm under his head and pressed his mouth into it. He’d wanted Steve to fuck him because—because he’d wanted Steve owning him, wanted Steve to feel good. He hadn’t imagined he would get much out of it, but he was pushing back against Steve’s finger, wanting that electric feeling again.

Steve slid a second finger into him, and said, “Feels better than you’d think, doesn’t it?”

And Bucky realised that meant Steve had let guys do this to him, and Jesus, just that image of Steve being fucked was enough to have him grinding his erection into the sheets, then pushing back into Steve’s fingers, and biting down a whine that he couldn’t do both at once.

That was a third finger sliding in, and now it was kinda uncomfortable, a stretchy sort of burn, but that added a layer onto the pleasure. He didn’t want to think what he looked like, face down, legs spread, fucking himself on Steve’s fingers like some whore.

Then he felt Steve remove his fingers, and felt empty for a moment before he felt Steve’s dick pushing in, and shit, that on its own was almost enough to have him coming, that Steve was fucking him, Steve was inside him.

“You okay?”

Bucky managed a nod and a muffled, “Uh-huh.”

Steve was moving, thrusting in, hitting that place inside, and Bucky had never imagined anything could feel as good as this. Then Steve pushed a hand under him and wrapped his fingers around Bucky’s dick and the best got better. Steve just twisted his hand around his dick and Bucky was coming, swallowing his gasp as he did so.

It still felt good as Steve fucked into him, but it was almost too much, too intense. He could hear Steve’s breathing becoming more ragged, gasping, and Bucky was seized with a fear that he’d fuck himself into an asthma attack, but then Steve pushed in deep and collapsed on top of Bucky. Bucky gave him a moment, then turned over (and the sensation of Steve’s dick slipping out of his ass was probably the most unpleasant of the whole morning), and they snuggled in close to each other.

Steve’s breathing evened out, and Bucky relaxed as it did so. He was a little sore, a lot sweaty and sticky, and too hot to be wrapped around someone else, but he was also grinning like an idiot. He nosed into Steve’s hair, kissed him at the hairline where the beads of sweat were already starting to run together.

“We should wash,” said Steve.

“Yep.”

Neither of them moved. It was probably half an hour of sex- and heat-induced immobility before they actually got up, and washed up. Neither of them had the energy to get any further than the couch, lying splayed out, half-dressed, to try and keep as cool as possible.

Bucky looked at the ceiling. He had to get some things sorted out. “So—are you—are we—are we gonna do that again?”

“Do you want to?”

“Hell yeah.”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, then.”

Bucky looked at him. “I meant it. About not wanting you kissing other guys—”

“I get any say in the matter?”

“Uh—”

Steve smiled. “I think I kinda prefer kissing you, anyhow. What about you and kissing girls?”

“I—we can’t be like this forever, can we? You—you gotta find a girl sometime. Settle down. Be— normal.”

Steve sighed. “I guess.”

“But we got a coupla years before we gotta do that, right? And I’ll find you a girl. Promise.”

“I wish—I wish it wasn’t like that.”

Bucky reached out and tangled his fingers with Steve’s. “You’d look just _darlin’_ in a wedding dress.”

Steve flicked his hand with a finger. “You’re wearing the dress.”

“Yeah, I do have the legs for it, now you say it.”

Steve’s head lolled back on the couch, and he closed his eyes. “Would you? Marry me? If you could?”

“We’re practically married already. Be dumb not to. And since you’ve ruined me for any other man, you gotta marry me.”

“Screw you once and you’re trapping me in a marriage.”

“You asked. Practically proposed.”

“And _you_ said yes.”

“Yeah. I did.” He looked at Steve, squeezed his hand, wondered if the smile on his face was as goofy as the smile on Steve’s.

It was the sort of stupid conversation you could only have on a hot day, when your brain was half-melted and there wasn’t the energy to do much more than talk. But still, he reckoned, if the world turned upside down tomorrow and guys started marrying other guys, he would. It wasn’t about last night, or the morning. That was...was...the culmination of a long engagement? Closest they’d get to a wedding night? But he’d loved Steve, been in love with him, for as long as he could remember. It’d just taken him too damn long to work that out.

And soon it couldn’t be like that any more. But they’d make do, take what they could get. It was what they did.


End file.
